


Hardly Ever

by codswallop



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Background Case, Community: hc_bingo, Delirium, Fever, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 11:21:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1980999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codswallop/pseuds/codswallop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thursday looks after a flu-ridden Morse and finds him even more difficult, if possible, than the normal version.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hardly Ever

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Small_Hobbit for britpicking this one, and to king_touchy for alpha reading and encouragement.

A flu epidemic swept through Oxford in late January, taking half the city down, it seemed--Cowley CID no exception. Thursday himself succumbed to a mild case of it, early on, and felt poorly enough to stay home and submit to Win’s fussings and broths for two days. By the time he returned to the station, Jakes had gone down with it as well, Strange was coughing and hollow-eyed, and Bright had fled on a hastily scheduled holiday in hopes of escaping the plague.

“It’s a good job most of the criminals in town appear to have phoned in sick this week too,” Morse said, scrolling a fresh sheet of paper into his typewriter and beginning to pound away at it with merciless severity. “Any serial murderers in the district who find out what a skeleton crew we’re operating on around here could have themselves a proper field day.”

“We’ll just have to hope they’re all laid up with their hot water bottles and Vicks, then, same as our side,” Thursday said, and thought of his own hot water bottle with a shiver and a sigh. Cowley Station was a draughty old place, and Morse’s relentless typing was already bringing back his headache. He really could have done with another day in bed. Instead he sent P.C. Strange home, unwrapped one of the lozenges Win had stuffed into his pockets on his way out the door that morning, and sat down at his desk to try and make some sense of the notes Jakes had left for him. They appeared to have been scrawled in Sanskrit.

“I’ll have to interpret those for you,” Morse said, tapping briskly with two fingers on the papers at which Thursday was staring blankly. “He was quite ill already by the time he wrote them down--looked positively green.” Morse’s tone managed to convey a certain high-minded distaste for the unwell that Thursday rather resented at the moment.

“What about you?” Thursday demanded.

“Me?” Morse raised his eyebrows, blue-eyed innocence itself. 

“Tickle in the throat, hot-and-cold spells, gone off your feed at all?”

“Oh, no, sir. I never get ill.”

“What, never?” Thursday quipped.

Morse twitched a polite smile down at him and shrugged.

“What, too good for the likes of Gilbert and Sullivan? Of course you bloody are. Run me through the case notes and get out of my sight, then; I’m in no mood for opera snobbery on top of your aggressive good health today.”

*

It was with a certain amount of wry amusement as well as pity, then, that Thursday noticed his errant bagman hunched and shivering in his coat at his desk two afternoons later. Morse was contemplating a file on his desktop and fiddling with a pen, but without his usual nervous energy; he looked half asleep, in fact. Thursday watched him for a while. “Morse,” he said finally, and Morse looked up in confusion, his eyes vague and glassy. “So it’s caught up with you, too, then,” Thursday said, and Morse frowned.

“No. A touch, perhaps. Nothing of importance. No, it’s this case--the one that came in yesterday, the woman in the river?”

“The suicide?”

“I’m not convinced it was one. Her husband still isn’t, either.”

“Filled her pockets with rocks and left a note,” Thursday reminded him. “Unless--did the handwriting analysis come back yet?”

“Yes. It was definitely her hand.”

“Ah. So, then…?”

Morse shook his head, swallowed, winced. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Something about it, though. It’ll come to me. I thought I might go round to the riverbank again, take another look at the spot where her shoes were found. Bit funny her taking off her shoes before wading in.”

“You’d do better to go home and have a sleep, by the looks of you,” Thursday said. “But you won’t, I know. Wrap up warm, then; it’s bitter out there.”

*

The next time Thursday set eyes on Morse, it was in the medical examiner’s office, where he’d been summoned to collect him after an ill-advised impromptu dip in the Cherwell. Morse was clutching a sodden grey wool blanket around his shoulders, with his wet trousers rolled up to the knees and his feet in a pan of hot water. He was prevented from speaking by the thermometer in his mouth, but he looked mutinous in response to Thursday’s reproachful sigh.

“I didn’t fall in,” Morse said defensively, through chattering teeth, as soon as he was relieved of the thermometer. “Not exactly. I waded in. At first.”

“I see,” Thursday said. “Not clumsy, then--merely idiotic?”

“Idiotic _and_ hypothermic,” the doctor announced. “His temperature was down to 93 when he was first brought in. It’s on its way up again now, though--too high up, more than likely.”

“He was sickening with the flu even before he pulled this stunt,” Thursday told him. “I’ll run him home. Unless you think he’d be better off in hospital?”

Morse looked more mutinous still, but the doctor shook his head. “Bed rest, plenty of hot tea, make sure someone keeps an eye on him for a day or two,” he said, dismissively. “And no more cold-water bathing until May or so, Constable, hmm?”

*

“Was it an informative swim, then?” Thursday asked, driving.

Morse, who'd looked tensed for a lecture, gave a short, surprised laugh. “Well, the current’s stronger than I expected.”

Thursday considered it. “Accidental death? With a suicide note? What, just playing at Virginia Woolf and got carried away?”

“No idea,” Morse admitted. “I’ve been too busy impersonating a drowned rat myself to form any real theories.”

“So I see. Warming up at all yet?”

Morse made a noncommittal sound and shrugged. He was still shivering, Thursday noted. 

“Will that nurse friend of yours be around? She’ll look in on you?”

“I…” Morse wanted to say yes, wanted to produce the answer that would best result in his being left to his own devices, Thursday could see, but his honesty got the better of him. “Don’t think she’s at home this week. Went to visit family in London. I’ll be fine, though,” he added quickly. 

Thursday gave him another doubtful once-over at the next stoplight. His lips were still faintly blue, and he hadn't quite managed yet to stop his teeth from chattering. But the young did have remarkable recuperative abilities, and Thursday hated to get too involved, for any number of good and sensible reasons. “Well,” he said finally, pulling up in front of Morse’s building. “Mind how you go. You know how to reach me, if there’s a need.”

Morse nodded, already groping for the door handle. “Thanks for the lift. Sorry it was necessary.”

“As you should be,” Thursday said, but with a half smile. He waited till Morse had made it inside the building--weaving, fumbling with his keys, still uncoordinated with the cold--then drove away shaking his head. 

*

The Thursday household phone rang at quarter to nine that night, just as Fred was filling his pipe.

“It’s for you, Dad,” Joan called out--sharply, and without a trace of kittenish disappointment, meaning it sounded like urgent business on the other end. “I think it’s Morse but he wouldn’t say,” she said, handing him the receiver with a frown.

Thursday took it, turning his back. “All right, Morse?” he asked.

“There’s something about the stones,” Morse said, not bothering with Hello or Yes, sir. His voice sounded like ten miles of bad road. “They’re not ordinary. Can we get hold of the stones?”

“From the woman’s pockets?” 

“Yes. You’ll know them when you see them. They’ll tell you. Can you get them tonight?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so, at this hour,” Thursday said carefully, and Morse made a frustrated sound that launched him into a fit of barking coughs. “I’ll come round. We can talk about it then.”

“Waste of time, you should go straight to the station--” Morse got out, sounding strangled, then devolved into coughing again.

“I’ll come round,” Thursday repeated, and put the phone back in its cradle.

*

The Morse who finally came to the door after ten minutes of Thursday’s persistent knocking was quite sure that he didn’t need a thing and had no recollection of having phoned him up at all. He was as pale as old ash, though, and kept a grip on the door frame that suggested he’d likely fall over if he tried to let go--and then he went paler still and shut his eyes in the middle of an insistent denial, and Thursday had to step quickly in order to catch him as he went down. It was an unfortunately familiar sensation.

“Slashed, shot, beaten senseless, and now this,” Thursday chided, supporting most of Morse’s slight weight as he guided him back to his bed. The lad was alight with fever, radiating heat through his threadbare dressing gown. “What next? I dread to think. Here you are--easy does it--”

“You left out fainting over autopsies,” Morse murmured, sinking back down on his bed.

“I was going to spare your feelings and not mention that one. ‘Never get ill,’ is it? If that’s so, it’s only because you’ve no time for it in between all your other misfortunes, I’ll wager.” Thursday began hunting around for a glass of water and an aspirin bottle. The interior of Morse’s bedsit hadn’t improved much since the last time he’d seen it, although at least there were fewer empties lying around. 

“Are you looking for the stones?” Morse asked, struggling up onto his elbows to see what Thursday was about. “They’re not here. Checked all the pockets already. You’ll have to go out for them; they’re all wrong.”

“I will in a bit,” Thursday assured him, running cold water on a clean-ish flannel and wringing it out. “There’s no rush; they’ll keep till morning. Lie back, now.” Morse gave him a suspicious look but apparently decided to accept this answer, for the time being, and lay back down, sighing with gratitude when the cool cloth touched his face.

*

It was a long night, as it turned out. Thursday didn’t mind it at first. Nursemaiding had never been precisely in his line of parental duty, as a rule, but he’d taken his turn at a few restless bedsides to give Win a rest during one childhood illness outbreak or another, over the years; he knew the drill. This was altogether different and yet comfortingly the same, and Thursday was rather amused, or touched, or both, to discover that his voice and presence had the power to soothe Morse, just as if he were a seven-year-old Sam with a bad case of mumps.

It grew less amusing as the hours wore on, though. Morse raved a good deal as his temperature soared higher, and aspirin and cold flannels and soothing words lost their power to quiet him. Much of it was innocuous, incomprehensible nonsense about the case he’d been investigating, stones and rivers and shoes and stones once again. But at times he seemed to be speaking to the ghosts in his mind--arguing in broken phrases, shouting, pleading with them--and Thursday wished very much he’d listened to his own advice and refused to get involved. It was the sort of thing he had no business hearing, for one. 

Also, it was nearly two in the morning, and he was growing exhausted to the point that everything was beginning to seem like a nightmare. This was far more than he’d bargained for. He ought to have bundled Morse into his car and driven him to hospital as soon as he’d arrived at his flat and got a proper read on the situation.

“I can’t stay here,” Morse croaked, throwing off the bedclothes and struggling irritably to rise. “ _You_ don’t want me here. I won’t stay.”

“Here, now,” Thursday said, pushing him gently back down, as he’d been doing over and over again for the last hour. “I could say as much, you know, but then where would we be?”

Morse blinked up at him. “Guv,” he said, a flicker of recognition unclouding the glassy look in his eyes for the moment. It only appeared to agitate him afresh, however. “Oh, God. What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here.”

“And I wouldn’t be, if I’d known that even when bedridden you’re the most difficult creature in existence. Go to sleep, Morse, for the love of-- No, it’s all right,” Thursday assured him, seeing him look white and appalled. “It’s fine. Just sleep. Sleep.”

Morse nodded, closed his eyes obediently, and sank back into his pillow, to Thursday’s intense relief. 

“The shoes, though,” he murmured, stirring and coughing again after a few moments. “Did you see her shoes there?”

“And we’re back round to this again.” Thursday threw back his head in despair. “Like a broken record, you-- Oh. Record. Hang on.” He got up and looked around, locating Morse’s battered record player and selecting one of the more well-worn albums next to it. “Should have tried this hours ago,” he scolded himself under his breath, and set the needle to the record, then watched the figure on the bed warily to see how he’d take it. 

Morse twitched in surprise at the opening bars of _Tosca_ , but then his brows drew together in an anxious expression. “Not this,” he said. “Something else. _La Bohème_?”

“All right.” Thursday rifled through the albums and located it quickly. To his ears, the music sounded more or less indistinguishable from the one he’d had on in the first place, but Morse found it a much more acceptable offering, apparently. Within minutes he’d fallen into a shallow doze, and after a few more restless mutterings he turned over on his side, face to the wall, and slept.

Thursday went to the cupboard, poured himself a generous shot of whisky and knocked it back, then fell into a chair by the table and put his head down. By the time the record came to an end, he too was snoring gently.

*

A light touch on his hand woke him, and he sat up at once, stifling a cry at the pain of his stiffened neck and back. Thin daylight was filtering into the room through the curtains, and Morse was regarding him warily from the chair opposite, still shaky and pyjama-clad but more or less alert.

“Sir,” he said, clearly bemused, while Thursday groaned and stretched. “Last night...I…” He opened and shut his mouth a few times.

“Morse,” Thursday held up a quelling hand. “Go back to bed. I implore you. I don’t want to see you out of it again until...several days from now. Later on today I’m going to phone you from the station to check in, and if you fail to answer or sound at all confused, I’m sending an ambulance over here to collect you. Understood?”

“Understood,” said Morse, looking stricken.

“Excellent,” Thursday said, and turned away to make tea, humming bits and snatches of _H.M.S. Pinafore_ songs under his breath and listening with one ear to the sounds of Morse shuffling to the toilet and back and returning to his bed. Thursday brought him a cup of weak tea, well-sugared, and Morse thanked him and balanced the saucer awkwardly on his knees.

“I...the case I was working on, though,” he stammered. “The drowned woman. I know I’ve been...confused...but I had some ideas; someone really ought to follow up on--”

Thursday reached over and put a palm to his forehead, but it was cool and damp--cooler than the night before, at any rate.

“I’m not delusional,” Morse said impatiently. “There’s something definitely strange about the whole thing.”

“So you told me, last night. Many times.”

“And you’re just going to discount it entirely, because, because--”

The last thing Thursday wanted was for him to get worked up again. “I’ll follow up on it,” he promised. 

Morse looked petulant. “Now you’re just humouring me,” he protested. “Why can’t you ever just take my word that I know what I’m bloody talking about? When am I _ever wrong_?”

He was in danger of spilling his tea all over his lap in his agitation, and Thursday took it from him and set it on the bedside table, then went over to the peg by the door to fetch his coat and hat. “You’re unwell, Constable. Get some rest. I’ll speak with you this afternoon.” 

*

Morse answered on the first ring when Thursday phoned him at half past two. “I’ve remembered what it was,” he said, before Thursday could inquire how he was feeling. “The stones in her pockets. They weren’t anything like the ones near the riverbank where she went in--it was gravelly there, even on the riverbed. No large stones at all.”

“Picked up from her garden at home, then? Or...why not anywhere, really? Perhaps on a walking tour last year. Maybe she’d been thinking about it for a while.”

“Or someone else had.”

“Evidence?” Thursday prompted, pinching the bridge of his nose. It had been a long day on little sleep. “Suspects, motive, any thoughts on why she’d write her own suicide note if she wasn’t in fact planning to commit suicide?”

“She could have been forced to,” Morse said stubbornly.

“What’s your temperature?” Thursday asked him.

“Normal. Nearly. I’m telling you, there’s something about the stones--can you just get hold of them, look at them, before you write me off as a head case? They’ve got to be in evidence.”

Thursday hesitated. On the one hand it was patently ridiculous, just a lot of fever-brained imaginings based on the last case Morse had seen before he took ill. On the other hand...most of Morse’s theories sounded like delirium dreams when you first heard them, and the devil of it was that he nearly always _was_ right, or on the right track at any rate.

“I’ll see if I can track them down,” Thursday said finally. “No promises. They may have been tossed. You’re lucky the superintendent’s still away, you know.”

*

Thursday went back to Morse’s flat that evening with a Thermos of Win’s beef tea, a flask of brandy, and an evidence bag containing two large round stones. He’d briefly considered picking up any old stones from the side of the road rather than go through the headache of obtaining them from the evidence stores, but the look of total delight on Morse’s face when he saw them made him glad that he hadn’t.

“They’re not ordinary stones, you’re right about that,” Thursday admitted. “They appear to be broken-off bits of statuary.”

Morse sat up in bed and turned the clear bag and its contents over and over. “Old, too. You saw the layers of lichen? We can trace these, I’m sure of it. The surface at the break is clean, so it wasn’t smashed off long ago. Strange--is Strange back yet?--ask him to gather a list of vandalism reports on local statues for the past six months. Something was _meant_ by these particular stones.”

“Possibly. But what makes you think she didn’t collect them for herself?” 

“She didn’t go into that river on her own. The shoes on the bank--I doubt she’d have walked into a riverbed that gravelly in her stocking feet, even if she didn’t intend to come out again. Why save the shoes at all? And if she’d stepped out of them by force of habit, they’d have been neatly lined up near the water’s edge. Instead they were kicked off. Look at the photos again tomorrow.”

He was clearly still feverish, although nowhere near as bad off as the night before. He looked all of fifteen at the moment, nothing but eyes and jitters in his wretched nest of a sickbed--a terrible snarl of a person. Like a filament in a lightbulb, Thursday thought, watching Morse gulp beef tea and brandy from a cracked mug while scribbling at a notebook he’d produced from somewhere in the bedclothes. Painfully bright and ridiculously fragile. He didn’t know if he were more grateful or regretful that he’d decided to take the lad on. Certainly he needed taking on, and who else would be mad enough to do it?

At any rate, he intended to have a break from it tonight. “I’ll leave you to look after yourself, then,” he said, getting to his feet and taking the evidence bag from Morse. “Don’t even think about coming in tomorrow--I’ll have the force examiner turn you away at the door.”

“Sir,” Morse said, when he was halfway out, and Thursday turned back to find him still sitting up in bed, hand awkwardly up at the back of his head in confusion. “Thanks, or, sorry, that is...last night, I mean…”

He did rather make one want to tuck him in one’s pocket at such times, Thursday thought with fond irritation. “Think nothing of it,” he said, tipping his hat, and escaped quickly out through the hall and into the cold night air. 

For the next three days, though he didn’t know it yet, he’d be caught up in yet another Oxford murder puzzle, involving three generations of feuding Bloomsbury Group scholars, a long-lost smashed statue, and a revenge murder disguised as a suicide. For the moment, though, Fred Thursday was on his way back to the warm haven of his family, relieved and regretful, hardly inclined at all to look back up at the light of Morse’s window as he went on his way.


End file.
